


the old things fade

by kangeiko



Category: Låt den rätte komma in | Let the Right One In (2008)
Genre: Gen, Post-Canon, Yuletide, Yuletide 2009
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-24
Updated: 2009-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-05 05:18:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/38197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kangeiko/pseuds/kangeiko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eli and Oskar, post-film.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the old things fade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brocanteur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brocanteur/gifts).



> Thank you to whetherwoman for the beta!

It is cold outside, maybe too cold to snow, Oskar thinks, although he knows better. He holds Eli's bare hand in his own gloved one as they walk through Luleå's snow-covered streets. It is the first night they have been out here, in this new home they have made, and he is inexplicably nervous. "We don't have to go out, you know," he says awkwardly as they walk. He thinks that maybe he should have said this before they left the safety and warmth of the apartment. There is a group of young men gathered on one corner, smoking and drinking from frost-glossed bottles and watching them speculatively. "We can stay inside tonight. It is only one night, it doesn't mean anything."

"It means something to _you_," Eli says, if that decides the matter. She looks back at the group of young men from under her long, dark lashes, little droplets of snowy dew gathered on the corners of her eyes like tears. "Oskar," she says, then hesitates, uncertain. "I want you to be happy," she says finally.

He understands from that brief pause that it was not the thing she had intended to say. It is nice all the same, warming him in places the snow cannot reach. "I _am_ happy, Eli," he says with quiet conviction, and squeezes her hand for emphasis.

"Hmm," she says, but does not comment further. Her breath comes out in silent little gasps, no warmth in it to make the little clouds of steam that mark Oskar's every exhalation.

"Anyway," he says, as if returning to an earlier conversation, "maybe one of _them_ is suitable." He inclines his head towards the group of young men still watching them avidly, their eyes on Eli's pale legs as she walks through the snow.

"Hmm," she says again, and it sounds a little sad. "Let us leave it for tonight, Oskar. I do not need it tonight."

"But they are _right there_," and this time he gestures, unwise and incautious.

She grabs his hand before he raises it too far, before he calls them over with his boldness. "Not tonight," she says again, and her hand has slipped in between his sleeve and his glove, rubbing over the bare skin of his wrist. Her fingers are icy, and they trace little frozen circles into his skin, coaxing him away to safety. "Let us see the tree, Oskar."

He is still watching the young men, who are looking disgruntled at a group of young women walking along the snowy street. There are too many people around now, too many eyes on them all. "Yes," he says distractedly, "all right."

The tree is only a little way up ahead, anyway, he thinks. And this group of men will not wander away for a while; not while they have alcohol to keep them warm. They will keep until the walk back, when Eli will be happier. When they have seen the tree together.

"Have you seen the tree before, Eli?" He asks. Maybe he asked her this before and forgot, and it seems suddenly important now, vital, that he knows.

She is looking up at the rooftops as they walk, watching which windows are lit and what decorations have been put out. "I don't remember," she says, and he knows that she has not.

He slips his glove off and takes her hand in his, cold and small and perfect. He can feel the cold seep in through his skin, numbing his fingertips, and he shivers.

Up ahead, they can see the tree in the middle of the square, a crowd gathered below to coo and point. Small children are being hoisted up on to their parents' shoulders, their mittened hands waving like tiny starfish.

A young woman with a toddler passes them. She smiles at Eli, who is looking at her hand in Oskar's and not up at the tree. "Merry Christmas," she says.

Eli murmurs something and burrows into Oskar's side, turning her face away like a child much younger.

The young woman laughs. "Enjoy the festivities," she tells Oskar, who is looking not at her but at her toddler, asleep in his stroller. She reaches out a hand and touches a strand of Eli's dark hair, loose in the wind. "Tell your daddy to take you right to the front, so you can see the lights," she tells her kindly, and is then moving away, her stroller jumping a little over the icy ground.

Oskar stays where he is, frozen, tasting bile.

"Oskar?" Eli says quietly. Her hand tightens over his. "Let's go look at the tree."

He swallows and tries to find his voice. "All right," he says, hoarse. "All right, Eli."

*

fin


End file.
